The Killer You Know. Kimberly Van Meter

clutched her pen tightly so as not to betray the shaking in her fingers.

      This was her big break.

      Finally.

      This was the kind of story that she’d dreamed about, the kind that made careers, with the potential to take her away from Point Orion and on to something bigger. Maybe even out of Washington State altogether.

      The New York Times was probably a stretch but she liked to aim big.

      But the pressure to make something happen—and keep the story fresh without the bigger news outlets scooping her—was immense.

      “Can you tell us about the victim?” Quinn asked, angling for a better spot in front of the sheriff as he addressed the throng of reporters crowding the station. “How did she die? Preliminary reports say that the victim is Rhia Daniels, a junior at Point Orion High. Can you confirm this information?”

      Sheriff Lester Mankins scowled at Quinn’s question but read from a prepared statement. “At 0600 hours this morning, the body of a young girl was found in Seminole Creek. Cause of death has not been determined. We will release the identity of the victim after the next of kin has been notified. That’ll be all.”

      Quinn frowned at the sparse information but waited for the television reporters to file out before chasing after the sheriff, catching him before he disappeared behind the security door.

      He started talking before she could. “Don’t give me those puppy dog eyes, Quinn Jackson. I gave you all the information I’m going to.”

      “C’mon, Lester, you have to give me something that the others don’t have. I’m trying to make a career move here. Bigger news outlets don’t want to see a portfolio filled with potluck dinners, Little League pictures and city council squabbles about cobblestones. I need something big and this is the biggest thing since...well, in a very long time and you know it.”

      Lester had known her her entire life. He was a good friend of her uncle Leo’s and, thus, a frequent visitor to her uncle’s place.

      And right now that connection was her ticket to information no one else had.

      Unless Lester continued to be a stick in the mud.

      Lester fixed a stern stare on her. “Quinn...a girl is dead. As much as I want to help you find your way to bigger and better things, we have to remain cognizant of the fact that a young lady isn’t going home to her family. Forgive me if your ambition is going to have to take a backseat.”

      Okay, so that wasn’t entirely out of line but Quinn couldn’t let a setback derail her. That was not what the professionals did.

      “I’m sorry, that was terrible of me. I really want justice for this poor girl. I mean, someone snuffed out her life and the local press can help put some pressure on. Just one nugget, Lester. Please? Just one.”

      “No,” he answered before closing the door behind him.

      She stared, unable to believe that Lester had stonewalled her like that. Quinn chewed the inside of her cheek, a habit she’d picked up in grade school when she was confounded, and wondered what was so special about this case that Lester couldn’t give her a tiny tidbit of information, separate from the boilerplate he was giving everyone else.

      Well, he hadn’t denied that it was Rhia Daniels. So she’d start there. But first...she wanted to see the crime scene.

      Seminole Creek was a tributary to the inlet and a popular swimming hole with the locals—in the summer.

      It wasn’t exactly swimming weather right now.

      Quinn wound her scarf more snugly around her neck and burrowed into it. The wind pushing off the water of Puget Sound made for some brisk air. It was the kind of damp that dug into your bones and stayed there.

      The weather was one reason Quinn was ready for a change of scenery. Washington was so wet and melancholy. Sure, it was green and “pretty” but for people with Seasonal Affective Disorder, it was the pits.

      Quinn didn’t have SAD, but that was beside the point. It was a real problem for some people. And just because she didn’t have SAD, didn’t mean she enjoyed the constant rain. There was more to life than galoshes and rain jackets.

      And the smell of fish...yuck. Not a fan.

      I know, I know, how can I live on the coast and gag at the smell of fish?

      Because Quinn suspected, in a past life, she’d been more of an arid desert kind of dweller because a dry heat didn’t bother her at all.

      However, high humidity...made her lungs seize.

      She climbed into her Jeep and made her way to Seminole Creek. News vans passed her on the road going the opposite direction and she was glad. She didn’t want to share any clues she might pick up with the bigger outlets.

      It did feel odd to see strangers trampling all over Port Orion, almost as if they were trespassing.

      Port Orion was small—a mere blip on the map—and most people completely bypassed it for more interesting places, such as Spokane or Tacoma.

      Who wanted to visit a dinky little seaside town with all of its 8,500 people and with a lighthouse as its biggest tourist attraction when they could visit Seattle in all its grungy glory?

      Yeah, not me.

      So, having people in town who were clearly not local...made for some discomfited feelings.

      But she’d been waiting for something big, something worth writing about that would make people sit up and notice. Let’s get real, writing about bake sales and fund-raising efforts weren’t going to further her career. Sure, currently she worked for the Port Orion Tribune but that was just to build her résumé. Not that the Tribune was sending her on ground-breaking news leads but opportunity was what one made of it, so Quinn never treated one story above another.

      Which, she’d admit, wasn’t easy when she was tempted to “forget” the deadline for a fluff piece on the church Sunday school daycare when she really wanted to focus on something that could actually make a difference, such as the time she discovered the school district central kitchen had been using food stuffs that were past their expiration.

      Maybe the threat of a little soured milk wasn’t all that dire in the big scheme of things but Quinn liked to think that stories like that helped build her foundation for later.

      For example, if she hadn’t followed up on the expired foods, she wouldn’t have been able to put the dots together when a rash of kindergartners caught a whiff of food poisoning and ended up in the hospital after a vomit-fest had followed afternoon snack.

      The school was lucky the parents didn’t sue.

      But if they had, Quinn would’ve been right there to catch the story, which given the fact that she’d discovered the misdeed in the first place, would’ve been a huge feather in her cap.

      However, no one sued.

      The school called it an “oversight” and in response, put a new committee in place to ensure it never happened again.

      They also fired the head cook, although not because of the food situation but because it was discovered that he had been going up to Seattle on weekends to do things best left unsaid, and the district didn’t think it was prudent to keep him on staff.

      Another story that fizzled to nothing under the suffocating veil of a “confidential personnel issue.”

      And Quinn was tired of her hard work going down the tubes.

      This story was the one that was going to change everything. She could feel it in her bones.

      Nothing was going to stand in her way.

Chapter 2

      Silas pulled into the sleepy coastal town of his birth and took a moment to adjust. A barrage